


Rough wooing

by Flauschvieh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis going all Romeo and Julien on d'Artagnan, Aramis plays his charms, Athos is pretty awkward, Constance is no fan of poetry, Crack, Gen, Humor, I don't know what I'm doing, M/M, Porthos and d'Artagnan wrestling, Porthos is showing off, Wooing, and d'Artagnan is creeped out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:26:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flauschvieh/pseuds/Flauschvieh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d'Artagnan is the new chicken in the henhouse and everybody wants him. Basically.<br/>Its a battle of wits, charm and manhood - and Athos, Porthos and Aramis each have their turn to woo d'Artagnan. May the best wooer win... or whatever.</p>
<p>(This is totally not a parody for 1x08 The challenge)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure crack, cliché-ridden and makes no sense. I take to responsibilty for nothing and strongly suggest you take nothing seriously.  
> I blame this [series of hilarious gifsets/meme things](http://irishandlovesthecraic.tumblr.com/post/83939619767/the-battle-for-dartagnans-hand-begins-who-will) and [this beauty of an entry scene](http://irishandlovesthecraic.tumblr.com/post/84560209782) No really, check out the stuff on tumblr, its awesome.
> 
> No beta, all mistakes are mine. :D
> 
>  

The day d’Artagnan fell into their lives, all head over heels from his yellow horse, in a charming attempt to pierce Athos’ heart with a sword, he succeeded-- metaphorically speaking. And hit not only Athos.

When Porthos and Aramis realized their serious man crush, it had evolved in tangible and bare man-love on first sight.

The boy was vibrant, stubborn and reckless in a charming way which drew the three musketeers to attention, but d'Artagnan was also sincerely naive and clueless when it came to matter of the heart.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis knew it was to become a battle of charm, wits and _manhood_ when d'Artagnan eventually started to hang out with them at the garrison and followed them on duty, even if he was still a trainee musketeer so to speak.

His loyalty and his eagerness to please stoke up the heat in the three men’s guts – and below.

All of them had laid eyes on the young lad, the _whelp_ some of the older musketeers called the boy from Gascony and when Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look and came to cross Athos' impenetrable stare, they all knew -- the game was on.

Young d'Artagnan however was blissfully unaware of their little contest which had set him as a living price, just for the fun of it.

He took any advances for sheer benevolence and comradely affection, and maybe for the better.

But when they were gathered in the pub in the evening, for one of the first times with d'Artagnan in tow, the boy was practically glued to their heels and followed every step and every gesture like an eager puppy. Athos, Porthos and Aramis shot each other looks which maybe became a little bit more heated and daring than they had assumed to happen.

The boy from Gascony was a fine-looking one; a tall lad with the first shadow of facial hair-- more like a baby-beard stubble and dancing brown eyes, a melodic voice and his noticeable endeavor to please let all three of the men consistently hover on the edge of their chairs.

Shifting uncomfortably.

They had never, never ever laid eyes on the same mistresses before, as it was a differentiation in personal taste based on appearance and personality. And while Aramis basically was drawn to almost every young female between the walls of Paris walking with a flourish of various skirts, Athos showed little interest in any woman at all. Porthos for that matter, as tall and strikingly noticeable he was wherever he stood , his mere presence putting men in their places though became somewhat coy and very unobtrusive in the company of ladies between the age of eighteen up to thirty-something.

But young d'Artagnan was a completely different affair.

Athos - _their_ Athos, the Athos both of them knew for so long - had taken an interest in the boy first and foremost, which was a rare thing as it were, and therefore caught Aramis' interest on the fly. Turned it into a mild, then serious interest and finally Aramis' hunting instincts had kicked in.

When Athos noticed, he did not speak one single word with Aramis for over a week. He turned a cold shoulder on him, apparently sore, and Porthos had concluded it a good idea then for neither of them to have the boy – and therefore threw himself into the battle as well, _totally selfless._ But the man ended up more into it than knee-deep when d'Artagnan stumbled over his own feet during the training course in the yard and came flying into Porthos’ cautious embrace.

Athos and Aramis knew Porthos had an obvious weak spot for people who where delicate and short and more than that seemed in need of someone to look after them.

So it was a game with three players now.

 "Gentlemen, let the best devotee win the battle of woo's." Aramis lifted his hat with a flash of white teeth and Porthos huffed a laugh.

Athos though, more looked as he was physically in pain as he was giving them that look, but he had his honour and his interests to maintain -- the man decided when he, for once, cleaned the mess in his flat and dug deep into his cupboard and the gap between bed and wall to produce his long lost comb and a set of clean smallclothes.

Athos, uncommonly groomed and spruced up, forced himself to smile once in a while.

Porthos, displaying his strength in a man-on-man combat maintaining eye-contact with d’Artagnan as he threw his opponent into a stack of hay.

And Aramis, reeking of cheap perfume seemingly had forgotten how the lacing on his neckline worked.

Well then, into battle.

 


	2. Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos has a go and fails in his attempt on romance and is pretty awkward and a creep.  
> Someone need to hit me with a brick or I'll continues this madness with Porthos next...

Athos’ approach came first, naturally. As the leader of the pack he had the first mating right. And quoting Porthos and Aramis - one might say he had a slightly unfair advantage in the matter, because d'Artagnan seemed to like him best all way from the start. The boy literally clung to the older, heeding his every word of command and looking at him with that big and wide eyes of boundless attention.

Admitted, they did not have not the smoothest of a start, with d'Artagnan accusing Athos of murder and trying to kill him and all, which would make a man pretty uneasy in his boots - but once their differences were settled, d'Artagnan undoubtedly had chosen Athos to be his mentor.

And it was heartwarming.

"Daddy substitute!" Porthos sneered, once d’Artagnan was out of reach and Aramis chuckled beside him. It was just the three of them in the yard, when Athos had commanded the young Gascon to go and look after the horses. 

"You sure it would feel appropriate if you'd tap that?", Aramis said and Porthos could barely hold it together any longer, the tall man’s chest was rumbling with suppressed giggles and he bent over a timber barking out a laugh when Aramis went on:

"I don't know Athos, there are other ways to feel young again, believe me my friend. My grandmother, God rest her soul, knew a very efficient receipt for a poultice, mostly mud and wine-based.."

Athos just gave them an icy stare - but counted his years carefully in his head, subtracting the age which they had guessed for d'Artagnan. He came to the conclusion that it wasn’t that bad at all and right when he was about to tell Aramis to shove it (his sword where it usually didn’t belong), the Gascon came back blissfully unaware of the whole conversation.

D’Artagnan threw the still giggling Porthos a puzzled look and brushed his hair back behind one ear. But nobody answered him.

“Are you ready?”, Athos asked instead.

His hand came to rest on d'Artagnan's shoulder as he ushered the boy away from the yard and their snickering friends, his tone soothing and velvet. "Don't mind them d'Artagnan, they're halfwits."

Athos' gaze flew back over his shoulder with a scowl when Aramis whistled after them, intonating a catcall that made d'Artagnan freeze in his steps. "Did he just..."

Athos nudged the other softly, shooting Aramis a death glare. "Yes, like I said. Don't think any of it - So, how do you feel about a glass of Bordeaux?"

The only thing their young friend knew was that Athos had offered to spend the evening with him, showing him something of interest.

Quite eagerly, d’Artagnan had agreed, thinking nothing of it. And here they were..

d'Artagnan eyed the other cautiously. For the short time he had known the three men now and made friends with the trio, it surely was enough to learn about Athos' delicate relationship converning liquors.  "That's wine, right?"

But this seemed different, Athos' featured appeared most solemn and d'Artagnan knew better than to question it, not willing to upset his best friend. But what he did was gesturing backwards, still moving though, Athos made sure of that.

"Porthos and Aramis are not coming along?"

"No", Athos said. "I thought of something more tasteful than the usual rambling through the tavern, so I hope you don't mind the proposal for a more.. quiet evening."

d'Artagnan just stared at Athos in mild astonishment, his mouth falling open but he couldn't think of anything clever to say, other than "...right."

~~~~

Two hours later, d'Artagnan wasn't so sure if it had been a good idea to go with Athos.

The dinner was nice, though. D’Artagnan actually never had a three-course meal this extensive and rich before and it was obvious Athos put a lot of thought and effort into his invitation and the evening..

Which exactly didn’t make it less suspicious.

“How did you come by all of this?”, the Gascon asked, nipping at his glass.

“Don’t you worry about that, consider it as a treat to a friend.” Athos smiled at him.

D’Artagnan eyed his friendwarily over the landscape of food and wine (and the darndest candlestand) outstretched between them on the table and Athos just met his gaze with a toast of his glass. Which d’Artagnan returned, with a red streak right across his cheeks.

“Do you treat all of you friends like this?” d’Artagnan murmured into his drink. “They must be very lucky men..”

Athos’ smirk let a shiver run down d’Artagnan’s spine.

This was… well, it _was_ ridiculously inappropriate. No way talking ‘round it. But in retrospect the dinner seemed to be the common business compared to what followed next.

d'Artagnan had almost preferred the stuffy and crowded room of a tavern in this moment - to be fairly honest he had preferred pretty much EVERYTHING to the awkwardness of taking a walk with Athos in the moonlight, strolling through the gardens of Paris at night. 

The ridiculously expensive bottle of red wine dangling from the man's right hand wasn't helping much, as little as Athos' uninterpretable and penetrating gaze fixated on him.

Athos watched the younger closely from the corner of his eyes as they walked and had barely a sense for anything else but him.

d'Artagnan found it unnerving.

He should have known that sharing a bottle of expensive red wine with Athos meant Athos basically drinking the good half of it (before they even had the chance to sit down somewhere, though d'Artagnan wasn't sure if he'd preferred that right now.)

The problem was, Athos spoke even less when drunk and d'Artagnan didn't know either how to start a conversation nor how to point out to Athos that he was being a creep, without so much as considered rude.

When d'Artagnan found himself stripped to thr bone at least half a dozen times under Athos' intense stare, he cleared his throat and turned to face the other, halting in his step.

"Okay, what is this about?"

Athos' brow rose characteristically; he lifted the bottle in his hand in d'Artagnan's face. "Wine."

d'Artagnan made an irritated little noise. "No, I mean  _this"_ , the Gascon almost whined, gesturing around the place with an excessive flourish of the arm, the one which was  _not_ linked with Athos'. 

Undoubtedly, it was strange to walk around like this with your best friend. At night. In the gardens. Without speaking a word for half an hour or so straight.

Even for Athos-standards.

Athos regarded him unfazed, the bottle in his hand sinking gradually lower with every second d'Artagnan made no attempt to grab for it.

"It's called sauntering. You are clearly not a fan of the etiquettes, aren't you d'Artagnan."

"Yes, no, I mean-" the young Gascon gasped helplessly. His hand waved back and forth after the attempt to free his second was destroyed on the first soft tug. "Come on, Athos. Isn't this something a gentleman does with his mistress,  _sauntering_  I mean."

The dripping tone of irony was palpable in the boy's voice as he stressed the word. Even the roll on his tongue by saying it aloud felt weird.

"It is something one does with a person one adores", Athos almost sing-songed back and d'Artagnan felt the fine hair in his neck stand up to a cold shiver. 

"Athos- this is not-"

"Appropriate..? Decent..?", Athos murmured merely a few inches away from d'Artagnan’s face now. The Gascon could smell the bitter-sweet wine on his breath and shuddered anew. 

"Athos,  _please",_ d'Artagnan whined, twisting and twirling in the stony grip of the other man's hold around his waist. When did he..?

Finally he succeeded and jumped a few steps back, looking at Athos with rasping hitch of breath. "I-I'm sorry but I don't think I can do this. I’m not-“

And with that the farm boy turned on his heels and all but fled the park “G-good night!"

He left a pretty bemused and dumbstruck Athos behind, who sat then down on a bench alone, having the rest of the bottle all to himself.

Shame, it had cost him a two month's musketeer’s pay. 

_Peasants._

 

So far the ‚ _Date‘_ with Athos went. Young d’Artagnan upset and fairly distraught over the recent events happened to find a listening ear and a good-natured clap on his back offered by Porthos then…


	3. Porthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Porthos taking the 'rough' wooing quite literally. Ouch, d'Artagnan, ouch ouch...  
> But he means well, dear old Porthos..

Porthos made a very poor attempt of hiding his devious little smirk behind the mug in his hand, as he placed a heavy glove-clad paw on d'Artagnans shoulder.

It seemed like Athos with his clumsy approach had driven the boy right into his arms and Porthos felt sorry for d'Artagnan to a degree... a little bit, oh okay well, not exactly.

The boy sat beside him on the bench in their usual spot in the tavern, palpably flustered and drinking like there was no tomorrow. And while Porthos just held him steady, Aramis was coaxing more and more details about the muffed rendezvous out of the young Gascon.

The two of them mimed the perfectly understanding couple of friends d'Artagnan could wish for in need of a shoulder to sob on right now.

Only Athos was strikingly absent, to no one's wonder really.

Rumour had it he was not seen leaving his chambers for the whole day and the shutters remained closed. So, obviously brooding.

Porthos and Aramis just treaded with the right amount of tact, fussing over d’Artagnan and neither of them reached anywhere near the words _date_ , _attempt of romance_ , _touch_ , _wine_ or Athos in this moment.

Either way d'Artagnan had talked himself into a fit of indignant complaints and constant whining, before Porthos got the better of it and elbowed the boy into the ribcage.

"Hey, how about a nice and stress relieving man-on-man wrestle later?" He flashed a white set of teeth. "Could teach you a trick or two about self-defence with bare hand.. could probably come in handy… if, you know.."

d'Artagnan looked at him wide eyed but eventually nodded. Mainly because he could use a good distraction right now and training exercises always helped to calm his temper.

And, so d'Artagnan thought, he needed some interaction with his friends that weren't creepy or somewhat weird. Little did he know what Porthos actually had in mind.

It was in fact a bit disturbing  in what manner Aramis snorted into his drink in this moment, apparently in defeat of a battle d'Artagnan was not even aware, had taken place. Or who had won.

He did however find himself eye in eye with a bare chested Porthos some time later that day and wondered, where he had taken the wrong course in life.

They were alone in the yard... apart from a few stable boys and musketeers who were off-duty and had obviously nothing better to do than mulling about. One of the men offered his hat to collect bets on the fight, the odd saying 1:10 for d'Artagnan which he found hardly encouraging.

Aramis, who happened to be a bystander as well, stuck two fingers into his mouth and gave a loud and sharp whistle, meant as a cheer for the boy "Go, d'Artagnan!"

The Gascon pulled a face into his direction.

"Can I not leave me shirt on?", d'Artagnan asked warily and watched one of Porthos' pectoral muscles give an interesting twitch of a spasm as he flexed into his fighting stance.

"You can", Porthos said with a hearty grin. He jerked his head to both sides once, making his neck give an audible crack and nodded to the younger.

"If you want to have it ripped and covered in dirt, that's up to you."

In this moment d'Artagnan was fairly sure he's made a rudimentary mistake in judgement (concerning his life choices).

There was an awkward pause before the Gascon yanked the fabric over his head in defeat and struggled with the linen, Porthos bellowing a laugh that sounded right across the full yard.

"Come on then, hurry up!" 

This was not going to play out as a fair fight or an even-balanced one for sure, d'Artagnan felt like a half-pint compared to Porthos, who was looking like an ox ready to ram him into the ground.

During the fight though, d'Artagnan noticed that Porthos was going rather easy on him, not only holding back his enormous amount of strength, but also giving him the chance to get a decent grip on the man's bicep and his shoulders once in a while.

Normally, Porthos would have nobody so much as touch him during a fight - more than necessary that was - and all too soon his opponents would find themself back flat to the earth, defeated,  with the taller peeking down at them and eventually an arm offered to them to be pulled to their feet again.

What was going on? It was apparent Porthos was enjoying their little combat training, not like he did always like with whoever his opponent was, but he gave d'Artagnan a cheeky come-hither sign and actually winked at the younger.

If d'Artagnan didn't know better, he would have said Porthos wanted him to get all handsy on him and go for every opportunity of an attack he was offered. Well, he was at least ought to give his best..

And the gascony hot-bloodedness made d'Artagnan sweep the thought aside and dash forward mindlessly, a gesture that would have Athos roll his eyes.

_Head over heart._

Porthos gave a grunt when d'Artagnan reached around his waist and ended up clinging to him like a koala to a tree - or a parasite stuck to Porthos' sweat slick body.

d'Artagnan could feel his friend's chest rumble with a chuckle. He blinked to watch Prothos' face enquiringly to find out, what in heavens he found so delightful; when the skin-colour appeared a slightly darker shade and d'Artagnan reckoned it was Porthos' equivalent to a flush. 

"Easy now", Porthos huffed, barely holding back what had to be a laugh. And he very easily unraveled himself from d'Artagnan's clasp.

"Don't tire yourself out too fast." His hands stayed around d'Artagnan's wrists a moment longer than strictly necessary, apparently to hold him upright, before the young Gascon made a step back and freed his hands with a skillful twist of the arm.

Panting he took his opponent in, weighing out his chances. 

d'Artagnan was aware he had no chance to wrestle a man like Porthos to the ground, but maybe he could triumph if he used his agility and good reflexes to trick him and feign an attack.

If Porthos would just let him. 

Under the next lunge d'Artagnan tried to duck and escape through an opening in Porthos' deadly embrace, but the taller man grabbed him good around the torso, vice-like and with a booming laughter.

D'Artagnan, with his arms pressed firmly to his sides all of a sudden like this, found himself completely immobilized.

"And this", Porthos panted, "is how you lose because you can't move a damn muscle."

Oh, but Porthos had no idea - d'Artagnan started kicking at him this very instant and Porthos laughed into his ear, pressing close and his hot and sweaty chest to d'Artagnans stomach.

The other had actually lifted him off the floor a few good inches.

d'Artagnan struggled and yelped in Porthos' grip helplessly, before the other shifted his stance and they both slumped down to the ground unceremoniously. From d'Artagnan came a muffled  _umph!_

He wanted to yield, desperately.

Porthos rolled himself on top of his smaller opponent and d'Artagnan slightly panicked. Struggling, twisting and twirling like an eel caught in a sling the Gascon cursed a blue streak and tried to crawl away from beneath Porthos, but the arms around his torso were adamant. 

Meanwhile Athos joined Aramis on the side of the battlefield, a deep furrow forming between his brows. "If this is Porthos showing his affection he surely defeats the purpose."

Aramis laughed and put another slice of cut apple into his mouth, leaning casually against the same pillar he shared with his friend. "He's always been the touchy-feely kind, dear Porthos."

"Can't say d'Artagnan seems to approve of the sublte approach." Athos quirked an eyebrow as another desperate yelp swept over in their direction and Aramis winced in sympathy, biting down on his knuckle. "Ah the 'bone-crusher'... didn't think he would use that all so soon now... well then."

In the end, d'Artagnan felt like he had not a single intact bone left in his body. He felt reduced to a puddle of porridge and pretty much everything hurt under an incautious touch. And Porthos the bastard had bitten him, d'Artagnan was sure there was a bite right on his neck beneath the ear.

What the hell.

When he came back to Aramis and Athos, granting the first a quick glance but not the latter, Aramis snorted a laugh and nearly lost his balance leaning against the pillar.

"You've got-", he yelped "-Porthos has given you a hickey!"

d'Artagnan froze in every movement and his hand flew to the stinging spot on his neck, starring in horror. 

At least Athos had the courtesy to lower his gaze and look away, a red streak high across his cheeks.

"Wha-", d'Artagnan pressed and then glowered in Porthos' direction, the other man having a wash right across the yard and displaying his bulk of muscle just in front of everyone.

"You're sick", d'Artagnan said and looked at the two friends beside him with a wrinkle of his nose.

"I don't know what game this is you're playing", he sucked in a deep breath "but I_am_not_interested!" 

Right in that moment Porthos decided it was a good idea to rub the wet cloth all over his heated upper body in a wicked display, seeking eye-contact with d'Artagnan while he did so, it nearly let the younger drop the cup of water from his grip.

"Oh no, no no no, I'm not having that", d'Artagnan stammered, walking backwards half a step and pushing the bowl in Aramis' unprepared hands before the boy fled - again.

"I'm outa here."

Left behind Athos and Aramis shared a look and Aramis' fine smirk could not have been more cocksure and playful than Athos knew about the variety of his charms.

"Don't", he warned with a silent groan.

"Oh come on Athos, every man the fair chances. My turn now.." Aramis twirled his hat in his hands before he put it on with a flourish and nipped the pointy end of his moustache.

"Time you let an expert join the field..."

 


	4. Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis goes all Romeo and Julien on d'Artagnan in the dead of the night and Constance comes to his rescue, as well as somebody he never expected they would...

Aramis, whose turn was to come last but not least in the affair of four hearts, contrived to follow the old fashioned way of wooing in which the gentleman displayed his affection through the administration of various gifts as much as noble bearing in the presence of their inamorata.

This is how he ended up with a white rose between his teeth and a scroll heavy with handwritten words of poetry in his hand under the window of d’Artagnans room in the Bonacieux’ household. He had brought a stable hand to hold the ladder for him, which he climbed eagerly and in high spirits a moment later. The equipment carefully placed against the solid wall beneath the windowsill.

It was far past the evening mass and the streets gloomy as they were only lit the by the occasional night watchmen roaming them with lanterns swinging from their hands.

Aramis hoped, he would not be inconvenient, but the soft gleam behind d’Artagnan’s window drew the man like a moth to the flame. And since for Aramis a nightly visitor was the epitome of a romantic hero visiting his beloved, his plan was settled.

He had written a poem for the young Gascon, had pored over so many books in the library, every single one he could find to learn about the culture and annals of Gascony and devoured it. Because Aramis wanted to pin down the beauty of the country and it’s people in his verses.

Surely d’Artagnan would appreciate the efforts.

And so he stood, on the highest step of the ladder, quite literally in this moment, the heels of his boots wedged carefully against the wooden rung and his arms swaying for balance before he leaned in.

A soft but insistent knock against the window let d’Artagnan, who happened to be lying on his bed, hands behind his back and staring a pattern into the ceiling, startle up in his room.

He all but jumped to his feet and flinched from the portentous silhouette in the window.

First of all, how could anyone _knock_ against the window pane -- he was on the first floor, and secondly… what the fuck?

The ominous person was wearing a musketeer’s hat and had the air of a familiar and good-natured spirit, and in the next moment d’Artagnan recognized the hushed voice calling his name.

Aramis…?

The young man opened the window with a start and it almost sent the other flying back down the steps. But Aramis managed to hold on to the windowsill for dear life and in the next moment smirked up to the boy – still with the rose between his teeth.

The Gascon’s face lost every trace of colour as he blankly stared at the other, and down at the rose presented to him the next moment.

“This”, Aramis held the thornless stem gingerly between three fingers and made d’Artagnan grab for it reluctantly, “is for you, my dear.”

He smiled and locked eyes with the younger, well aware of the charms he could cast with the intensity of his gaze alone – well at least it was prominent to make every woman sway.

D’Artagnan, now with the ungodly rose in hand, remained staring at Aramis kind of dumbstruck.

Not very romantic, one ought to assume.

“What are you doing…”, d’Artagnan tried very slowly, when he found his voice back and choosing every word with precaution “.. in front of my window in the middle of night?”

The Gascon’s eyes darted over his friend, examined the dapper choice of clothes, the – so once again – open neckline of his shirt, baring a great deal of his chest and if d’Artagnan had found the courage to lean in a little bit closer, he would have smelled the heady scent of Aramis’ perfume. Trying to beguile his person.

“I’m here to court you, properly, like a gentleman ought to woo for the hand of his beloved.”

Aramis grinned at him, leaned back all so slightly but it was enough to make the ladder wobble dangerously under his feet.

Though, the man remained unfazed.

“But I’am not-“, d’Artagnan crowed awkwardly, in a high and croaky voice. Unfortunately, he was not heard, as Aramis interrupted him by the rustle of paper as thereupon he unfolded the suspicious scroll in his hand.

Aramis cleared his throat, his eye dancing over d’Artagnan for a moment before they found back to the ornate handwriting on the paper below. “May I recite a poem that I wrote for you. Dedicated to the beauty of the lands in Gascony and it’s people alike – and it has you starring in it, my friend.”

“No”, d’Artagnan just said.

He didn’t know what to say or how to say anything at all, he wasn’t able to do words right now, there was just one big and entire NO in his mind that swept aside any clear thought that tried to form in his shock-addled brain. “Please”

Aramis lowered the scroll, but only just a little, and blinked at his younger friend, one delicate eyebrow questioningly raised. “No? Don’t say that before you haven’t heard the first lines..”

d’Artagnan whined and Aramis started reading undeterred.

What followed over the course of the next minutes was Aramis indulging in a never-ending speech of praise and flattery about the young Gascon, reciting verses in French mixed with words in Latin to emphasize their purpose and in the end d’Artagnan had turned a bright red colour.

Partly from embarrassment, but also from restrained anger.  

“Aramis!”, d’Artagnan hissed and jerked his head to look over his shoulder.. someone was coming. Because Aramis was making too much noise, because THIS was ridiculous and if they were found out.. d’Artagnan didn’t even want to let his thoughts go into that direction.

Aramis didn’t even notice the soft knock on the door of his beloved’s room, as he kept up the prattle, reciting verse after disastrous verse.

Constance only took a moment to analyze the situation, a witty smirk on her lips before she disappeared into the hallway again – and d’Artagnan thought he was left alone and doomed.

But merely a few minutes later the landlady of the humble Bonacieux' house reappeared with a bucket full of cold water and made for the window, smiling to d’Artagnan in ways full of dignity.

“May I?”

The Gascon couldn’t think of anything to say. Aramis could neither, as he was splashed and soaked wet to the bone a moment later, snorting and huffing, before he lost his balance on the damn ladder and crashed down unceremoniously with a strangled yelp.

The stable hand had cushioned his master’s fall but the swearing was inevitable.

Not so much left of a gentleman in Aramis at this point, and d’Artagnan just shot him an apologetic glance from high above and closed the window.

“You’re welcome”, Constance just said, before she walked out the door again and let it fall shut behind her. Apparently Aramis had disturbed the fine lady’s night’s rest and apparently so, d’Artagnan isn’t allowed any nightly admirers, the poor lad.

But for now it appears, Constance has saved him.

 

* * *

 

The next day found the four men gathered in the garrison, waiting for Treville and the morning report. Aramis was tending to his sore backside and avoiding any sold surface to sit on, while d’Artagnan deliberately ignored him for the entire time.

The boy sat on the tlarge abletop, feet resting on the bench below and he was engulfed in the process of cleaning his pistol rather thoroughly. He did so until Porthos strolled by and eyed the younger suspiciously, leaning against the table in his back.

The air of a looming conflict hung heavy over the yard and it seemed not only Athos was brooding secluded to himself with a drink in his hand. Porthos looked around and saw Aramis pacing a trail into the muddy ground beneath the stairway to Treville’s office, mumbling to himself -- and even the young Gascon looked miserable and ill-tempered and Porthos couldn’t help but feel sympathy.

“You alright?”, he inclined his head and d’Artagnan huffed an unamused snort, without looking up.

“Not exactly. I haven’t had much sleep because Aramis spent the night reading bad poetry in front of my window!”

Porthos winced and turned to said man in anger, but before he could reach Aramis to tell him a thing or two, Athos was at his shoulder and held the taller man back, hissing. “Leave it, it’s no use.”

“Oh yea?”, Porthos snapped back. “You’re only saying that because you want another go on the boy.”

Athos just gave him a glare.

Aramis had eavesdropped their friends’ conversation and stepped in, with a warning glance to both of them and set his chin dignifiedly. “You’re both brutes, I suggest you drop the idea and let me handle things.”

“Like you did last night?”, Athos deadpanned.

And before any of them could have seen it coming, they each had a hand fisted into leather and linen, a grab to their comrades’ collar and the second hand either clenched into a fist or lowered to the hilt of their sword -- when Treville’s voice cut through the quarrel and let the men freeze where they stood, about to jump each other’s throats.

“Enough of this nonsense!”, Treville bellowed and lined them up under his gallery.

“I will not tolerate my men being distracted and torn in dispute over a love-affair where I need them focused and loyal as one! I've been watching this for days and I will decide on the matter _now_." 

Nobody dared to say a word, suddenly it seemed like one could hear a needle drop.

Then Treville leaned over the banister, hands pressed down to the wood and his eyes darted to the youngerst. “As your commander and the best man in the regiment -- I claim d’Artagnan to be mine. He will be my personal manservant until he has proven himself worthy of a Musketeer!”

Athos, Porthos and Aramis as a collective stared dumbstruck from Treville over to d’Artagnan, who had just dropped his pistol and bit back a course.

What…

“Am I understood?”, Treville barked and nodded to d’Artagnan, jerking his head towards his office, indicating for him to get his arse upstairs and join him this instant. And so the Gascon just followed the order given, his mind blank.

Minutes later the boy stood in their captain’s office with his head bowed and his hands folded neatly in front of his lap.. waiting. He should have stayed in Gascony. Cattle and sheep were not so bad after all.. at least the never had tried to mate with him...

Treville meanwhile paced in front of his desk and finally shook his head with a sigh, before he turned to the young recruit. “You have caused quite a turmoil, d’Artagnan.”

If possible, d’Artagnan’s head dropped ever lower to his chest. “I am terribly sorry, sir. It wasn’t my intention-“ All of this was his fault, obviously. 

But Treville interrupted him with a sudden and unexpected gentle smile. “Don’t worry, the affair is settled now. Athos, Porthos and Aramis won’t be so bold as to disobey my order…”, he regarded d’Artagnan closely. “Even concerning you.”

There was a pause. Then Treville returned to his desk with a curt nod and sat down, not heeding a single mind to the Gascon, as he began to write down note on his paperworks.

D’Artagnan hovered in the door and cleared his throat, unsure about what hell he was to do now. Treville, looking up, seemed surprised that the other was even still with him in the office.

He raised an eyebrow. “You may go, d'Artagnan.”

“Sir..?” d’Artagnan enquired.

Treville’s lip curled up into a smirk. “You’re free to go. I have no interest in a boy. Consider it a favor.”

As soon as d’Artagnan undertstood the meaning and the gesture of those words, he dipped to a deep bow and spun on his heels, relieved. “T-Thank you, sir!”

When the boy left the office, Treville watched him. And like drawn to it by force, his eyes settled on the rather handsome and firm backside... the other side of his mouth curling up, rueful. Oh well ...

Fin.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The fic title inspired by the historical [Rough Wooing war](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rough_Wooing) .. I found it rather fitting, hehe


End file.
